“Dahhlin’, can I make you some cheese and crackers?”

This was one of my grandmother’s favorite questions. She’d ask this whenever I’d visit her apartment, and my answer was always and without fail a resounding “yes!” Her genteel Southern drawl purred from the kitchen while I marinated in comfort on her red couch in the den, and I’d watch General Hospital after school while awaiting Gouda on Carr’s water crackers, served on a silver tray with a smile and a gentle kiss. She was always tender; she smelled like cold cream and heaven.

My 7-year-old self didn’t realize it at the time, but feeding someone was her ever-ready panacea. Failed a test? “Let me make you pizza bagels!” Stubbed a toe? “Ice cream for everyone!” Grandma couldn’t acknowledge anything that was unpleasant, especially the fact that her oldest son was mentally ill and unable to care for his young children. But she would make sure to cultivate a well-defined palate and popularity with dining partners. No one was a more charming or put-together hostess, always dressed to the nines for a party with drink in hand.

She was an amazing cook and self-published a cookbook. This is how she would cope with life—cooking. Therapy was anathema. Digesting feelings would be the ultimate challenge and ultimately her downfall.

I remember she would enjoy making an entrance. She was too demure to be pretentious, and her impish laugh made her a delight. Wearing a fancy kimono robe and showing off her hourglass figure, she'd proudly present my feast with fancy napkins and a Swedish cheese slicer. “Please, ma’am. Let me know your pleasure." Treating me like an aristocrat in an Evelyn Waugh novel made me sit up straighter; it lit the fire for my imagination. It led me to the theatre and many exotic experiences around the world. Oh, how that nourishment still feeds me.